


receding into indefinite rain

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Nonverbal Frisk, Post-Canon, Spoilers - Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small"><i>Choose a quiet<br/>place, a ruins, a house no more<br/>a house,<br/>under whose stone archway I stood<br/>one day to duck the rain.</i><br/>      - Li-Young Lee, "With Ruins"</span>
</p><p>Five years after the monsters go free, Toriel and Frisk receive an unexpected visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	receding into indefinite rain

**Author's Note:**

> _(the sky knew he was there_ – Melancholy is useful. Bring yours.)
> 
> additional warning for brief mentions of past self harm and suicidal ideation!

It is autumn again. The whole house smells of fruit and pie spice.

Perhaps it should still be a novelty, to have a window over your sink to look out of—to be able to gaze fondly upon the scattered leaves that clutter up your backyard—but even though it has only been five years since the exodus, there is a comfortable familiarity to the sight. Either it is your memories of surface life before your banishment, or even an old goat like you can still adjust to a new lifestyle easily.

Maybe it’s just that the kitchen is so cozy, especially when you have set aside the time to cook with Frisk. Your job as a teacher is demanding, as is their work as the ambassador between your peoples, but they are still the only child you have left, and you are indulging yourself as much as them by making sure you have time to spend together. Having family around is something you have missed for a long, long time.

And as it is autumn, that means baking together. Frisk no longer needs a footstool to see over the counter; they are tall enough that their chin is level with your elbow, now, which seems to be an average height for teenage humans. They keep their hair at the same length it was when you met them, and so there is no need for them to tie or pin it back as they bend over your mixing bowl. Their sleeves are rolled up; smutches of flour line up with faded old scars on the pale underside of their arms.

You watch them for a while, distracted from measuring out ingredients for the pie filling by the low slow ache of love that swells in your chest.

“Posture, dear,” you tell them, gently.

Frisk sighs and straightens up slowly, signing a lazy _Ok Mom_ at you before returning to their task. You raise your eyebrows at them, reproachful, but resist the urge to nag.

The print in the cookbook is very small, and you have to push your glasses up on your snout to be able to make sense of it, even squinting. It did not bother you so much when you lived in the Ruins, you think with a mental sigh; you have no idea what has been getting into you lately.

There is a tug at your sleeve, and you turn to find your child making a low insistent humming noise at you. Frisk lets go when you are fully facing them, freeing up their hands to speak to you.

_How high are we supposed to turn the oven up again?_

You pick up the cookbook and hold it at arm’s length, adjusting your glasses and frowning. “It, ah, says to preheat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit, my child,” you inform them, and you go on to check your own measurements since you’re holding the thing anyway. This recipe seems to call for two _tablespoons_ of strawberry jam, not teaspoons. You are glad you made yourself double-check; the berry pie is a new find of Frisk’s, and you would rather stick close to the instructions for the time being.

When you set the book back down and turn, you find that Frisk is still standing there looking at you.

“Were you not going to preheat the oven, my child?”

Frisk makes a pensive noise, holds up a finger to ask for your continued attention, and swivels around to adjust the oven knob. They dust their hands on their slacks before they face you, and you would gently remind them to use one of the perfectly serviceable dishcloths lying about, but:

_Mom, are you okay?_

“What?” you say, for a moment. Frisk tilts their head in the direction of the cookbook and crosses their arms, giving you an unsure look. Understanding filters through the cracks of your confusion; you smile at them. “My eyes are just tired today, my dear. I am fine.”

Frisk turns their chin a little to the side in the way that means they doubt you but do not want to get into a fight over it. At length, they uncross their arms. _Okay, if you say so,_ they sign.

You rest your hands gently on their shoulders and nuzzle their forehead until the wrinkles of worry smooth over. “Truly, I am all right,” you assure them. “I appreciate your concern nonetheless. Now, will you see to the pie crust while I resolve my conflict with this filling?”

They smile and hug you in answer. Even when they let you go, you watch after their back for a few moments, biting back fond laughter as they fumble with the pie tin. They cock their head to the side for a moment as if listening—a familiar gesture, when they are thinking something over—and return to their task with surer movements.

You return to your own work then, trusting them to carry out the rest without flaw. Pie-making is, after all, one of your favorite shared pastimes.

It started with baking cookies together with all of your other friends, once you had settled in here on the surface. With everyone clustered into the kitchen together, it had of course been an utter disaster, but Frisk seemed to have enjoyed it, and asked to do it again. In the interest of not destroying anyone’s house, you elected to do the baking session one-on-one. You’ve been doing it at least twice a month ever since.

Of course, even now that Frisk has progressed to the point of making pies with you from scratch, you still have no intention of letting them have your butterscotch-cinnamon recipe. They are too soft of heart; they would spill it to Asgore the moment he asks them, when dangling it over the man’s head is the last petty revenge you are allowing yourself.

When it is finished, today’s pie will be for the two of you to enjoy. It’s a test run for the pies you will bake in three weeks’ time, the fifth anniversary of the exodus.

You watch from the corner of your eye as Frisk opens the oven, lets the heat roll through the kitchen, and carefully sets the pie tin on the middle shelf. Their movements are careful and perfect, and your heart swells with pride.

 

 

The completed pie has barely been set on the cooling rack to sit before the doorbell rings.

You shut the sink off and hastily pat your hands dry with the nearest dishcloth. It is one of the few times you wish you had bare skin like Frisk rather than your own fur; it can be difficult to get all the dampness out.

“I will get it,” you tell Frisk, as if you do not usually take care of door-answering duties to spare them from people who do not know better than to try to force them to speak. They nod and flick a hand at you, inattentive.

So without further ado, you leave the kitchen and head through the hallway and the living room towards the front door. Whoever is there rings the doorbell a second time, and you quicken your pace even as you scowl at their impatience.

“Yes, yes, I am here,” you say under your breath. You turn the lock and open the door, already preparing to give your visitor your best glower.

Asgore stands on your front step. Somehow, you feel as though you should not be surprised: But then again, something seems unusual here. You still know him well, though you hate to admit it to yourself most of the time; you cannot simply push a few thousand years’ worth of time spent together aside. Asgore is not the type of man who usually rushes outside to speak to people with his shirt half-buttoned. His mane has not been combed. He is out of breath, his eyes are wide, and his great hands shake. It is the last that disconcerts you most, for that is what you have always loved and hated most about him—the steadiness of his hands at all times. Those hands were your comfort when you lost Asriel and Chara, and you cursed them when Asgore used them to murder innocents.

But they are shaking now. You frown, pensive instead of annoyed.

“Tori,” Asgore begins, and then he closes his eyes as if pained, and corrects himself. “Toriel. I realize that this is an odd time, and that it’s unsightly of me. But there is something I wish to discuss, and I cannot make myself wait.”

You cross your arms for a moment, because you want him to know that you could very well turn him away and shut the door right in his face if you so desired more than because you are actually considering it. (You may be considering it just a little, but you will not actually do it; this most likely truly is important.)

“Well, come in then,” you say, and step back so that he may enter. He has to bow his head slightly to fit his horns under the doorframe, though it is a perfectly comfortable height for you to walk under. The part of your heart still warmed by angry coals is pleased. You ignore the sensation and back your way into the hall, then fold your hands, waiting for Asgore to get to the point.

He takes a deep breath. “This will seem like a very strange question,” he says haltingly. He begins to bring his hands up to his waist, then clenches them. “But I would appreciate it if you humor me.”

This would be very strange behavior in anyone, let alone Asgore. You find yourself watching the minute changes in his expression the way you have not for decades: the creases around his eyes that bespeak confusion, even anguish. He paces two steps to the right, three to the left, then folds his arms behind his back and turns.

“Toriel. If anyone might answer me plainly it would be you. If—if I could count on anyone to tell, it would be you. I noticed something about my reflection today. I do not know if I am imagining it.” He shakes his head. “Please look at my beard. I think that it has gotten more gray.”

You are aware of your own sharp intake of breath, but not of the fire gathering in your hands until your shoulders and the line of your spine begin to tremble.

“If this is your idea of a joke,” you very carefully _say_ rather than _snarl,_ “it is not an appropriate one, Dreemurr.”

To his credit, he does not even flinch. “Toriel, listen to me. I would not joke about a matter like this.”

But you are tired of listening to him. “Get out of my house,” you say, voice quivering in the force of your sheer rage. “Or I will make you leave.”

Asgore takes a very deep breath and then exhales, squaring his shoulders. You clench your fists, preparing all the might of your magic.

Before you can advance on him—Frisk steps lightly between you, putting a hand up towards each of you as if to hold you apart. You blink, canceling your spell in a hurry.

Seeing you back down, they draw their arms back in towards their body, signing so fast that it is all you can do to keep up. _Mom please don’t burn down the house, why are you fighting with Dad?_

“It is my fault, really,” Asgore admits, sounding almost glum. “I was overexcited. I cannot ask you to forgive me. But I still want your opinion.”

You fold your arms, not trusting yourself to speak. Why is he acting like this? He knows as well as you do that neither of you will ever age again so long as you have no biological child. You had hoped, initially, for a way to anchor your soul to Frisk’s—you are so tired of outliving your children—but there was nothing you could do to make it work, so you gave up on that years ago.

“Here,” Asgore says, lifting one hand to run a claw down his sideburn. “And here.” He indicates the hair along the part of his mane. “I am too afraid that my hopes deceive me.”

You look away from him. A few moments pass.

Frisk tugs your sleeve, making an inquisitive noise. When you surrender and turn, they release you and begin to sign at you: _Was Dad’s hair always gray there?_

You lift your head. Asgore is standing very still.

There. And there. Those thin streaks of white in the gold do not belong, they are out of place, and you allow your body to sink back into the wall as you raise one hand to your mouth.

Asgore bows his head. “So it is not just me. That… is a comfort, but it still raises the question of _why.”_

“This is impossible,” you whisper. “Our only son is—he is gone. So how else…”

Frisk makes a low sound. You turn your head, grateful for their distraction, but they do not immediately start signing to you. Instead they chew on their thumb, push their hair back behind their ear multiple times, tilt their head to one side as if thinking very hard.

At last, they sigh. Their face takes on a grim set that reminds you of when you first met them. They lift their hands, clasp them over their chest briefly: When they unfold their fingers and begin to sign, they seem to shake.

_How much do you remember about how you learned my name?_

 

 

This is how Frisk tells you about a flower called Flowey.

 _Alphys didn’t know that it had absorbed Asriel’s dust when she decided to make it the vessel in her experiments,_ Frisk signs.

_He made me promise not to tell you because he said he would turn back into a flower and stop being able to maintain his monster form once he’d given up everybody’s souls. He didn’t want you to have to see what he was like, without his compassion._

_He wanted to stay in the ruins, anyway. He said that someone had to take care of the flowers. I don’t think he wanted to leave Chara._ And for a moment, Frisk looks very, very sad.

Sitting on the chair beside yours, Asgore is solemn, his eyes much too bright.

You press your hands to your face. The fingers tremble still.

“But he is definitely alive,” you say.

Frisk takes a deep breath. They nod.

“We could only age by passing down our soul power to him directly,” you say. “He would have to have his own body for this to happen. His own soul. It does not make sense.”

Asgore stands up.

“However this is happening,” he says, “it is clear what we must do.”

 

 

You change into your robes and pack food and supplies for three.

It has been some time since anyone has voluntarily gone back to the Underground, after all. Frisk has told you that they cannot remember the way to the entrance directly above the Ruins, so you must travel all the way back through New Home to reach them. It may be dangerous. It will definitely be time-consuming. You have made the necessary calls to take time off of work. You love your job, but—if there really is any hope that you may see Asriel again…

You pause outside Frisk’s bedroom door. They have not turned their lights on, but this is no impediment to you. They stand in front of their dresser, removing something—some sort of jewelry from a small box to hook the clasp behind their neck. This seems like an odd choice of hiking wear, but Frisk made this climb when they were much younger, so you suppose they know well enough what they should and should not put on.

“My child?” you venture. Frisk jumps, tucking the necklace under their sweater collar in hasty movements before they turn to face you. “Are you sure you want to do this with us? It will not be a very fun trip. We may come back emptyhanded.” You do not want to subject them to your own misery, in a worst case scenario.

Frisk shakes their head. _No, I’m involved in this. I have to go with you. I’m the one who’s been keeping the secret all this time. I want to take responsibility and make sure he’s okay._

You know that look of determination too well to try to put your foot down. This is Frisk; even if you locked them in the house they would find a way to get out and follow you.

So you smile at them instead, a little sad, a little fond. “All right,” you tell them. “Let us be on the move.”

 

 

It is still very early in the morning. You and Frisk and Asgore decided to sleep and prepare first, then set off immediately once preparations are ready.

Breakfast is—well, it is usually quiet on Frisk’s end, but you cannot think of much to say either. You fry bacon and eggs sunny-side-up in a pan—it is good to be able to eat real meat and eggs again, after so many centuries of nothing but bugs and vegetarian substitutes—and eat it together with slices of last night’s pie.

“This has turned out very well,” you say, in an effort towards normal. “I believe we will be able to advance to more complicated recipes soon.”

Frisk smiles a little, but whether because they are not in the mood for conversation or because their hands are busy with their utensils, they do not answer you.

You gather your equipment and leave the house. Frisk locks up; you squint at the horizon. There is still only the barest hint of dawn over the distant hills.

Asgore is coming up the sidewalk. He, too, is dressed formally, cape billowing and incongruent with the pack he carries. You are not much better, with your backpack fastened over your robes. Frisk is the only one in your party who does not look an anachronistic mess, but their sweater and jeans remind you of how they looked when you first met them—a small child with ripped tights, skinned knees, and a sweater almost too big for them.

“Let us go,” you say, nostalgia and some sense of fate making you uneasy. “It may not be far to Mt. Ebott, but that is still no reason to tarry.”

 

 

The mountain trail is only about twenty minutes’ walk away, and the three of you are silent all the way. For your part, your mind continues to stray towards Asriel. If he is truly alive—if that is truly the cause of Asgore’s gray hair, if it is not too much to hope for—what will it be like, to see him again?

You have done your best to hold on to your memories, but it has been many long years. You did make sure to bring a few photographs with you when you left New Home, but oh, there have been days. There were tapes, of course, but you did not have a television in the Ruins. You were afraid to buy one and watch them. What if you tried to play a tape back only to realize that you no longer recognized your son’s voice?

But you remember some things. You remember how sensitive Asriel always was, crying with little to no provocation; he was always a gentle boy. You remember his favorite bedtime stories, the way that he would request you read the same ones over and over. You remember him trying to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat an extra slice of snail pie, and the look on his face when you were blocking the way, doing paperwork in the living room. You had not given him any more pie, but you had made him a snack and told him what your paperwork was about until he fell asleep again. You remember him being excited for getting his horns in, and pestering you and Asgore over and over about what it would feel like. You remember watching him tag along with Asgore to the garden. You remember him knocking on your bedroom door and asking if he could please stay with you because he had had a nightmare.

You remember the day he brought Chara to you, half-carrying them as they staggered, bloody and crying and exhausted. Old grief and bitterness roil within your heart, silk dragged along an open wound.

There is still chocolate in your refrigerator even now. The only time you have ever really raised your voice at Frisk was when you found them trying to eat it. Their expression then, still vivid in your mind, does not bear describing. You will never forget it, nor having made them cower so—just one more item on a long list of regrets. It was your fault for not explaining beforehand, and you admitted as much to them when you apologized.

You have lived with the loss for so long: Asriel, Chara, and all the others. You tried to tell yourself you were lucky just to have Frisk, that even one of the children you tried to care for is alive and happy. It is not enough, but it has given you purpose, just like your new life has.

And now—you have a sliver of hope. It is like the sun: It lights up your world, it warms you, but you are afraid to look at it directly.

There is no guarantee that Asriel will really be there and be himself. There may be nothing at the end of your journey but a soulless flower that no longer wants to call himself your son. You may even find nothing at all. You are wary of assumption; the possibility still feels as though it could burst at any moment, like a soap bubble on the breeze.

But you stand now at the foot of Mt. Ebott, and you know that as long as the hope exists at all, you cannot turn away. He is your son. No matter how the past five years have changed him, if he is alive, you must go to him. There is no higher certainty in your heart.

“Is everyone ready?” Asgore says, voice hushed in the early dawn.

“I believe so,” you reply. You meant the words to be tart, but they leave your mouth grim instead.

Frisk steps from between the two of you, and silently begins to walk, their backpack a bright splash of color against autumn’s dull browns and golds.

 

 

Even now after the exodus, climbers are rare on this mountain. The old legend meant to keep humans away from the underground still has too much weight, you suppose. This means that there is no one to maintain the trails you had to clear in order to get everyone safely down. Most of the old foliage you burned fastidiously away has grown back. It would be unwise to waste your magical energy at this point of your journey, so when it is possible you clamber over and around any obstacles.

You must stop to rest before midday, all three of you sitting side by side on a rock formation, Frisk still between you and Asgore. They are doing it consciously for your sakes, you are certain, because many times already they have circled back on their own tracks to resume that position. They are smaller, lighter, and more physically fit than you—they are, after all, a high school student who daily attends gym class, rather than a schoolteacher whose only real exercise is herding her students from one location to the next.

It is good to be seated. You wonder if it is your inactivity over the past few years that has softened you so, or whether you too have been aging. It feels too good to be true. You retrieve a water bottle from your backpack and slake your thirst, gazing absentminded over the tree line.

“Frisk, was the path this bad when you climbed the mountain five years ago?” Asgore says. You turn your head slightly, so as to watch them from the corner of your eye.

Frisk is still for a while. _I went the other way around,_ they sign at last. _And it was a while ago, so I don’t remember that well. I was a lot smaller then so I think I had an easier time fitting through tight spaces._

They were very small five years ago, you think. You barely had to lift your hand to pat their head.

You get to your feet.

“If our way is blocked by obstacles this time, I will burn them clear,” you vow.

Frisk cocks their head to one side. _I thought you were saving your energy for later?_

“There will be time to rest again when we have reached the underground,” you say, using the tone that will make it clear to them you will brook no argument. “I will be fine.”

They shrug, as though still confused. But there is understanding in Asgore’s eyes, when you meet his gaze. You stare him down, challenging him to comment, but he does not contest your judgment. Of this you are—tentatively—glad.

“Let us go, my child,” you say, and offer Frisk a hand. “We should reach the entrance in a few more hours’ time.”

They nod, and allow you to pull them up. Asgore, too, makes to rise; you turn away and stride further along the path, head held high, heart full of purpose.

 

 

It is afternoon when you come to stand at the lip of where the barrier used to be. The sun is starting to lower in the sky. You are tired and hot from the exertion of climbing, but a pall falls over your soul as you stand at the mouth of the cave. The centuries-old memory hangs over you—the end of the war, the endless sentence of imprisonment, and you with your head raised proud and defiant, refusing to blink, trying to burn the sky into your eyes in case you never saw the sun again. There is no human army looming behind you now, no clave of wizards waiting to seal the path behind you once you take another step. You know this. But fear of the trap raises your hackles, and your feet refuse to budge.

Asriel, you try to remind yourself. You must be strong for Asriel. He has waited here for so much longer. He has only ever had a glimpse of the surface, cruelly torn away from him by the humans’ attack. He still needs you to help him, to set him free.

But your feet refuse to move.

A minute passes, then another. No one moves forward. You can see Asgore from your peripheral vision, his front cast into shadow with the sunlight directly behind him. His expression is difficult to make out, but you do not doubt that he hesitates for similar reasons.

Something small and warm touches the palm of your hand, and you catch your breath.

Frisk hums. You swallow and look down at them. They cannot sign to you with their hands occupied—they have taken Asgore’s hand as well—but their upturned face is very calm. They smile for you, then swivel to turn the same expression on Asgore.

They step forward. Their grip on your hand is very firm, and it is either follow along or be pulled off-balance, so that is what you do.

It is the role reversal as much as Frisk’s reassurance and audacity that brings a faint smile to your lips. Something in your chest eases.

The three of you pass through the tunnel and into the heart of the mountain.

 

 

New Home is all but empty.

Passing over the castle ramparts pains you. The city is as still as a human cemetery, white and gray like the silent bones of animals. This place was once as full of life as the town you live in now, but in your absence its appearance has changed to reflect what you suppose it has been now for a very long time. It is a casket for old memories.

The garden is still neat, Asgore’s throne lined up with yours, covered in a similar sheet to keep the dust off. You would hold audiences here, sometimes. Often you had to fish Asgore out of the flowers at odd times of the morning and afternoon, to help you take care of paperwork and logistics. He was good with people, silly man, but he had neither your head for numbers nor your political ruthlessness. He had his responsibilities and he was serious about fulfilling them, but at heart he just wanted to sit with his daisies and his tea, and relax.

You wonder if he is happier now with his landscaping work. It feels very odd. You do your best to banish the thought.

This is, after all, where he would meet them. And behind you, in the mouth of the barrier—that is where he killed them.

Still, the specter of a happy family yet clings to this place, like cobwebs in corners. Vague memories of Asgore smiling beside you, of Asriel with his nose in one flower or another, of Chara squinting up at the light filtering through the ceiling, of naps and of quiet talks and of too many photographs ruined by Chara getting shy and hiding their face at the last minute—they seem to swirl about your feet, tugging at your ankles like the plants. Your instinct is to quicken your pace, but instead you step lightly, not wanting to tread upon them.

The house itself is nearly bare. You knew that Asgore had taken most of the furniture along with him, even though you have never seen the inside of his new home. But you have not been back here since the exodus, so it is your first time seeing the empty silver rooms. You do not feel altogether attached to your body. Your claws tick on the wooden floors. They echo like the sound of clock hands.

No one speaks. Asgore is not looking at you, and Frisk’s hands are quiet and limp at their sides.

The bedroom hallway seems to call to you. You face it for a long, long moment.

Perhaps—if he—you do not know. It is possible that Asriel visits this place, if he has indeed remained himself. Perhaps there will be some sign, some important clue towards locating him, if you can only steel yourself to look. But it is still too painful to be here, and powerful is the need to turn away, as you have always done.

You take a deep breath and put one foot forward, then another. You cannot hear the others’ footsteps. They are not following you, but neither are they leaving you behind.

Your claws shake as you set your hand on the doorknob. You close your eyes and turn it.

“Oh,” you say.

What you were expecting, you are not entirely sure—a bare room, perhaps. But nothing has been moved. There are sheets draped over the beds, the toy box, the lamp, the dresser, the closet. That old colored pencil flower Chara drew so long ago is still in its frame on the wall.

You lift the sheet from the closet with trembling hands and flip the latch. The doors open with only the faintest of creaks. Green and yellow fill your vision, even in the dimness. Everything is still right here, where it belongs. You lean forward until your nose touches fabric, close your eyes, and inhale.

You could swear that faint traces of your son’s scent still cling to the soft wool.

Because your eyes are stinging with emotion, you ease away and shut the closet doors once more. You replace the sheet, raise one hand to your face and smile bitterly at your own folly.

There is a human philosophical theory, or so you have learned since rejoining the human world, about a cat in a box that is both alive and dead at the same time. Your grief weighs heavy on you still, but there is hope too, and you will not be able to set one of them to rest until you are able to see for yourself whether Asriel is still here. It is a terrible sensation, like being pulled in separate directions until you are about to come apart.

You close the door behind you when you leave. Asgore and Frisk are still standing in the hall; Frisk is leaning against Asgore’s arm, expression slack from exhaustion.

“This is no place to rest,” Asgore says. “As long as the Core still functions, everything should still have power, so it is more likely that we will find a place to stay in Hotland.”

“Yes, that idea is well enough,” you reply. “Let us go, then. The sooner we arrive, the sooner Frisk can take a nap in a less vertical position.”

At the sound of their name, they whip their head up and make a low displeased noise, scrunching their face up at you.

“Yes, I am referring to you, silly child,” you say, and smile at them. “Perhaps the hotel will be more suitable. We should be on our way.”

Frisk looks past you towards the hallway for a long moment, but when you wrap your hand around theirs, they walk between you and Asgore without complaint.

 

 

The air conditioning still runs in the hotel room, so that inside here the oppressive heat that had made breathing feel like pulling in thick vapor is now comfortable and soothing instead. Nothing is in too terrible a state of disrepair, either; the bed is only very dusty, and when your initial attempts to shake the comforter out only make Frisk sneeze, you have Asgore take it into the corridor to deal with it there.

Turning back to the room, you find Frisk peeling their sneakers off and dropping their backpack unceremoniously on the ground. They stretch, rising to the tips of their toes; they tuck their hair behind their ears with both hands, and they crawl onto the wide mattress on all fours. Once at the middle of the bed, they turn in a circle like a cat and curl into a ball. It is, frankly, adorable. But they do not even bother with getting under the sheets.

“Frisk,” you tell them, “if you go to sleep like that you will catch a cold.”

They make a _mmnnnnhhhhhhh_ sound at you and do not move. You sigh.

“At least take a pillow,” you try to persuade, fetching one that has already been shaken free of dust to slide under their head. And, for good measure, you carefully arrange yourself on your side next to them, putting an arm over their flank. You are warm. This will be better for them, surely.

The next thing you are aware of is a gentle warmth settling over you, and—you do not quite startle, but you stiffen. When you open your eyes, you find Asgore stepping back, hands raised to demonstrate the lack of any intent to harm. The comforter has been laid lightly over your body and Frisk’s.

“I apologize,” Asgore says, keeping his voice low. Frisk is still asleep, and if you listen closely you can hear their snore: Soft and unobtrusive, like the hum of bees on a summer day. “I did not mean to wake you.”

Your heart flickers through a cycle of annoyance and fondness; you look away from him and watch Frisk’s side rise and fall for a while instead. “It is fine,” you reply at last. “I had not meant to sleep anyway.”

He is quiet for a while, too. “You may still wish to, while you can. We have a long journey ahead of us yet.”

Perhaps it is because you are looking at Frisk that the thought occurs to you, and you frown. “And when will you rest, Asgore?”

“I beg your pardon?” He sounds—and looks, when you turn to him—politely puzzled.

“You must care for yourself as well,” you say to him. You have not had this argument in a long time—not since you still lived together, were still in love. “There is no one here to care about appearances, or what is befitting of a king. You are still only one person. Especially now. Taking on too much responsibility is what led to—so much of this.”

His eyes, when he looks at you, are very soft. “I appreciate your concern more than I can properly express,” he says. “But I am all right for now. I will rest the next time that we stop. For now I will stay awake and keep the watch.”

You sigh, but do not argue back. “I do not know that I will be going back to sleep,” you inform him, “but I will take the opportunity to rest, then.”

Asgore nods his head and steps heavily away. You hear his footsteps stop after a moment; when you look back at him he is standing in the doorway, turned to the side so that he may look back at you and your charge.

“Do you ever think about the prophecy,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

Asgore smiles. “When I first met Frisk, I thought that perhaps the prophecy referred to them—that they would be the one who knows the surface, and return to free our people. I wondered for a while if I should not just—give them my soul and let them go. It would not have been atonement, really. I was only—tired. It was not responsible of me. And Frisk reminded me so much of Chara.”

There is nothing you can say to that. At the very beginning… well, you thought that Frisk looked very like Chara too. Aside from your own resignation—you think that is probably why you were never able to make yourself ask for their name.

“I am glad that I did not simply give up,” Asgore says, and his gaze is on Frisk, and his expression is tender. “I do not think like that so much anymore, nowadays.”

You watch him watching Frisk for a while, and something flickers beneath the waves of bitterness in your heart: An undertow of sadness, a luminescent curiosity.

“Well, for whatever it is worth,” you tell him at length, struggling to keep a smooth tone— “I am glad that you are still alive, as well. I meant what I said then, and I still do now—you deserve mercy as much as anyone, no matter what you have done.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, and he is smiling at you, and you do not know what to think about that. “Anyway, what I had meant to say was—in the end, it wasn’t Frisk, was it? It was Asriel, all along. He came back to us, to save us—little as we may have deserved it. It is good, to have the chance to come back for him now. To be able to be a proper parent to someone other than Frisk.”

You nod to that.

“I will be outside if you need anything,” Asgore says, and takes a step outside. “Please try to sleep, Toriel. You need your rest as much as Frisk and I do.”

And he closes the door—softly, so it will not make a sound.

You can ruminate on this conversation later, you think, and wrap your arm gently around Frisk once more. Because Asgore is right for once, after all; you must conserve your strength now while you can.

 

 

After partaking of triangle-cut sandwiches in the hotel lobby, the three of you set out across Hotland. Only a few of the puzzles still remain active—ordinarily you might be glad of this, but in the case of the vents it poses a problem. Frisk is agile and durable, as humans go, but they cannot jump wide gaps on their own power.

It might have been easier, it occurs to you now, to have contacted Alphys ahead of time to see if there is something she could do about this. But there is no longer cell phone reception here in the heart of the mountain, so it is too late for staircase wit to save you.

Asgore offers to carry Frisk in his arms or on his back, but you are worried about Frisk’s balance—that lava is not very forgiving—and so you call up the reserves of your power and float gently from platform to platform.

As soon as you set Frisk back down, they begin to sign excitedly at you: _I didn’t know you could do that too! That’s so cool!_

You frown. “Have you seen this technique somewhere before, my child?”

Frisk nods, enthusiastic. _Yeah! Asriel did it when we were fighting. I thought it was just something he could do because he had everyone’s souls. But you can actually do that anytime you want, huh?_

“Not quite anytime I want,” you correct, gentle. “It is very advanced magic, after all.”

They nod again. Then they frown, plucking at their shirtfront with nervous fingers.

_You really don’t remember anything that happened in that fight, do you?_

You close your eyes. Strain your mind to the best of your ability. You can vaguely recall the sensation of a small child’s arms around you, the declaration of a refusal to fight, a signed talk about pie. You remember how odd it was when everything went back to normal, instinctively knowing Frisk’s name.

“Only a very little,” you say, sadly. “I recall when you reached out to me. I realize now that you must have introduced yourself to Asriel, because I woke knowing your name, but that is all. I cannot remember him.”

Frisk hums softly. They sound forlorn, almost.

“We will be seeing him soon enough, I hope,” you tell them. “That is what matters most, is it not?”

They nod, once, and do not attempt to get your attention again.

 

 

Traversing through Waterfall is uneventful. Phosphorescent mushrooms and crystal lanterns cast ghost lights over Frisk’s skin and your and Asgore’s fur. Frisk walks slightly ahead of you now, either still melancholy from your earlier conversation or trusting the both of you to get along.

“Take an umbrella, my dear,” you urge when you reach the open expanse where aboveground runoff turns to artificial rain. “If you are wet when we reach Snowdin, you will catch a cold.”

Frisk nods to you and retrieves three umbrellas from the bucket, handing one each to you and Asgore before opening their own. They watch you for a while longer, but you have been traveling this path since long before they were a twinkle in someone’s eye, so you have no trouble with your own umbrella. Apparently reaching the conclusion that you will be all right without supervision, they turn on their heel and walk ahead. Water patters off the canvas of their umbrella, stray droplets soaking into their sleeves and backpack.

These umbrellas are very clean, you think. If simply left in the bucket without any care, surely they should be thick with mildew by now.

A faint sound reaches you as you continue to walk, all but buried underneath the pseudo-rain. At first you are puzzled, but then you recognize it as music, and your feet carry you forward into the tunnel, your heart hammering.

Frisk stands before the statue. They have already returned their umbrella—the one set over the statue is a different color—and they stand as though they are made out of stone themself, hands balled up into sharp fists.

The music box, Asriel’s music box, the same tune you used to wind by hand for him and for Chara every night at lights out—it rings out soft, solemn, utterly relentless. Asgore comes to a stop next to you; from the corner of your eye you see him raise a hand to cover his face.

Frisk shakes their head and turns to you, begins to sign, but their hands tremble so and they move so quickly that whatever they want to say is indistinct.

“Slow down, my dear,” you implore them: “Would you mind repeating yourself?”

They breathe in and punch themself lightly in the thigh, one testy smack of their fist; they then shake their wrists out and exhale and start over.

_It’s different. This isn’t the umbrella I put here the day we all left. Someone’s been changing them. He’s still here. He is._

They stop themself then, clasp their hands together at their waist and breathe in.

“Then we must hurry,” you say.

Frisk’s mouth trembles for a moment, but they nod. There is something burning bright in your chest.

 

 

You are not as lucky with Snowdin as you were in Hotland. The inn door is unlocked, and it is warmer inside than it was out, but there are no longer mattresses or sheets or anything, really, except an old empty fireplace.

 _We should just keep going,_ Frisk signs, slowly so that you can make it out through their hands shaking. _He’s there, we have to find him._

“I know; I want to find him just as much,” you tell them. “But, my child, we still have another snowfield to cross before we can reach the Ruins. I am worried about your physical state. We must rest for a while here, and warm up.”

Frisk makes a face like they want to argue, but Asgore blocks the door with his considerable bulk.

“Now, now, young one,” he says. “Your mother is very right. Your nose is red and your fingers are pale. Come sit with me for a moment, and I will help warm you up.”

Frisk looks at their hands, grimaces, rubs them together, and lets Asgore pull them to sit huddled up against him on the floor. His cape looks a lot less useless now, wrapped around Frisk as a makeshift blanket.

You watch them for a little, and then use your magic to set a flame in the empty hearth. You close the door and check the windows, trying to make sure that there are no easy gaps for air to escape from.

“Shall I warm something up for us to eat?” you ask, but when you turn around, Asgore’s chin is resting atop Frisk’s head and both of them are dozing.

You smile despite yourself.

The hypocritical urge to leave, to just rush out and see what there is to see up ahead, is roiling in your blood. You batten it down. Asriel is not your only child, and you suppose that at least for now Asgore is sort of your responsibility as well. They would be hurt to wake and see that you had left them.

So instead, you lower yourself to the floor next to your ex-lover, your shoulder not quite touching his, and you watch the fire rippling.

It is so strange, now that you think of it, to have been so close to a person and then so far apart, and now to have that distance closing again. You do not think that you will ever be able to forgive him, any more than you can forgive yourself. You do not think that you will ever be able to love him again, either, or at least not in the same way. But the bridge you thought you had burned is still standing. It is scarred and blackened, true, but it may yet be salvaged.

Maybe it is possible to be friends with him again, one day, if you want to be.

He was always the weepy one between you, but when you think of being huddled before a fireplace like this in the past—talking about the future and what to name Asriel before he was born, the hush when Asriel was still very small and prone to impromptu naps on the carpet, nights with Asriel curled up sleeping in your lap and Chara in Asgore’s—you find yourself getting misty-eyed.

You do not sleep, but you feel more rested than you have in a long time.

 

 

It is good to be out of the cold, but the walk down the empty halls of the Ruins feels like a walk to the gallows. You want to run. Forwards or backwards, you do not know, just that if you have to try to bear the suspense for any longer your heart is going to burst.

At last you come to stand at the staircase. You lose your ability to move forward, standing as though pinned to the ground, chin raised towards the distant light of your—of Home, you remind yourself. Just Home, now that you do not live here anymore yourself.

Memory surfaces in the back of your mind, of mounting the stairs slowly after you agreed to let Frisk go. How each step seemed to cause you physical agony. How you forced yourself not to cry. How you argued with yourself for hours, trying to convince yourself that you had done the right thing.

“Tori,” Asgore says to you in a low, quiet voice, nearly a whisper. You cannot even drum up irritation at the use of the old pet name. “Are you ready?”

“I am fine,” you say. You are not ready, you never will be, but you can handle this. After the first step, you do not shake so much.

But when your feet are on the familiar wood flooring, your throat locks up, and you find yourself unable to speak. You swallow once, twice; you shake your head so that your ears slap your cheeks. “Asriel?” you say aloud. It is a timid sound, hardly above a whisper. You clear your throat and try again at a more normal volume. “Asriel, are you there? It is your mother.”

There is no answer.

A small hand, still slightly cold, tucks itself against your palm. Another hand, larger and rather warmer, settles on your shoulder. “Let us look around,” Asgore suggests. Between you, Frisk is nodding. “We may yet find something.”

You brought your books and your chair with you to the surface, but you left most of the other things. As all three of you head into the living room together, you scrutinize everything you see, but nothing seems too out of place.

The kitchen, though:

A stack of plates lies unwashed in the sink.

Frisk sucks in their breath audibly as you raise one hand to cover your mouth. Flowers do not need to eat any kind of food that produces dirty dishes.

“That boy,” you say, beginning to laugh, or maybe cry. “I thought I taught him to clean up after himself properly.”

Asgore puts an arm around your shoulders. You let him—you sink into his side as his breathing roughens, and run both hands down your face.

Frisk’s sneakers thump on the hardwood floor, pattering away from you. You hear the distant sound of a door being flung open: Then a brief silence, and running footsteps, gaining volume. You turn and raise your head to find Frisk skidding towards you, backpack askew so that the neck of their sweater is pulled down over their shoulder, out of breath.

The instinct to nag them to cover their binder strap pops up, incongruous, but you tamp it down. “What is it?” you ask them instead.

They don’t even try to sign: They just grab one of your hands in each of theirs and tug you insistently towards the bedroom hallway.

In comparison with the rest of the house, Asriel’s room is visibly lived-in: The bed is unmade, there are books strewn across the dresser top and toy box lid; worn clothes lie in a heap at the base of the closet. He has gotten lax, without you and his father around to bother him to clean; this is a bit of a surprise, because in your recollections Chara was the one who tended to accumulate more flotsam and jetsam, even if they were more creative about hiding it than Asriel was. That does not matter, though. In all the underground, this one house still holds the warmth of life inside.

“Well, he is not here,” Asgore says aloud. When you look over your shoulder, his eyes are very bright, with wet tracks through the fur on his face. “That must mean that he is elsewhere in the Ruins.”

 _There’s only one place he could be,_ Frisk signs, and: You want to laugh and cry again, because they are absolutely right.

 

 

You walk together, all three of you, through the Ruins: Past leaf piles and old inactive puzzles, over a set of dummy spikes that you once had to hold Frisk’s hand to get them to cross. You hated this place, once, self-imposed prison though it was. But now it almost feels nostalgic. You walked this path at least once every week—to visit Chara’s grave and check on the flowers, and to make sure that no new stray children had fallen. It is—good to know that there is no longer any need to worry about human children coming here in hopes of disappearing.

Surreptitiously, you watch Frisk for any signs of distress. It has been a long time, for a human, but: Some wounds are slow to heal. Thankfully, their expression is serene.

You pass through the door. There is light filtering from down the hallway. You attempt to breathe steadily as you traverse beneath the arches and turn the corner.

And, there: A small white figure in badly patched clothes, facing away from you, a watering can in one hand. Haloed in light. Golden flowers at his feet.

Your vision blurs. You raise both hands to your mouth to stifle the sound that wants to escape, and blink as rapidly as you can. Even when you are able to focus your eyes again, he does not disappear.

Asgore is frozen, standing stricken just like you, but Frisk takes a step past you. Then another, and another, each faster than the last.

They have made it halfway to the flower plot when the figure turns, and _oh,_ there he is; it’s your son.

“Frisk?”

The voice is hesitant, shy, a little deeper than you remember, hoarse from disuse. But you would know it anywhere; even if a hundred years passed you would still be able to pick it out of a crowd of any size. Relief squeezes more tears from your eyes: See. You have not forgotten. You have not forgotten a single thing.

And Frisk hurtles the rest of the way, nearly tripping, colliding into Asriel with so much force as to nearly bowl him over: They check themself at the last moment, taking hold of his arms, touching his face. Asriel blinks at them, lifting his hands belatedly to pat at Frisk’s shoulders as if to confirm that he is not seeing things. He pinches his cheek between two claws, says “Ow,” and starts to laugh when Frisk yanks the offending hand away.

“It really _is_ you,” Asriel says, wonder filtering through the shock. “Even though I told you to just go be with everyone else, so many times… Really—don’t you have anything better to do?”

Frisk shakes their head emphatically, brown hair whipping in a soft dark halo around them. Asriel laughs again, and his voice is rough, but it is holy as bells pealing in your ears.

“Wow,” he says, and “wow, gosh,” again. “It’s—it’s good to see you. I, uh,” and here his voice shakes: “It’s taking me longer to turn back into a flower than I thought.”

You are moving before you consciously choose to—long powerful strides, nearly running. Asriel’s eyes go wide when he sees you over Frisk’s shoulder; his mouth drops open. You do not give him the time to be startled. Frisk makes a happy noise when you wrap your arms around them both; Asriel jumps slightly, but he clenches one hand in the front of your robes, and oh, oh.

“My son,” you say, and to your shame you lose control of yourself entirely: “Oh, Asriel—”

“M—Mom,” he squeaks, and whether it is alarm to see you cry or shock to see you at all you are not sure; you do not care.

Another pair of warm arms join you, encircling your body too; you do not even try to reach for the anger that is not there, because your son has begun to sob in sharp wrenching bursts, and he is real and solid and he is _alive_ and that is all that matters.

You four stand in the shafts of sunlight, here where the flowers grow, here where Chara’s bones still sleep in the peaceable earth, and for a moment everything is as all right as it can ever be again.

Asriel sniffles from somewhere around your chest and begins to wriggle. You let your hold on him slacken, with Asgore easing back a moment later. He has to shake Frisk’s shoulder a bit to make them let go.

Now with more presence of mind about you, you take the opportunity to really look at your son. He is—worryingly small, for a fifteen-year-old boss monster, you realize, and your heart wrenches to see it. Asriel is only a few inches taller than Frisk. His horns have begun to bud, but they are still only nubs, when they ought to have grown larger by now; there are scratch marks at their bases, and if they are still itching, then he cannot have had them for longer than a few months. And he is still thin and slight, where you and Asgore are both anything but. He would have only been ten years old still, you realize, and it goes right to your heart like lightning. And with everyone gone from the underground… Of course he would have trouble getting enough to eat, and taking care of himself. His eyes are so tired; his face is so hollow.

“Oh, Asriel,” says Asgore, and from the weight in his voice, you know that he has begun to realize the same thing you have. “I am so sorry it has taken us so long.”

“H-how,” Asriel hiccups. “How did—n-no, you shouldn’t… Frisk, I told you not to bring them here. I d-don’t want to break Mom and Dad’s hearts all over again… They already had to lose me once before, so…”

“Do not be angry with Frisk,” you interrupt. “They kept their promise to you until yesterday. We realized… your father and I have both been aging. So we knew that you had to be alive, somehow. We had Frisk explain it to us then.”

Frisk has the nerve to _shrug_ from between you and Asgore, as if to say that they will not be accepting any blame.

 _I wanted to say something earlier,_ they sign. _But I didn’t know what I would do if we came here and you were Flowey again._

Asriel’s face crumples. “I—see, that’s why you shouldn’t have come. I don’t know how much longer I have. I’ve managed to hold out for this long b-but I could turn back into a flower _any day now,_ I—” He gulps down a sob, painfully, and his hands go to the locket still hung around his neck. His sleeves are much too short; they ride up to his elbows as he does this. “Mom, Dad, I don’t—I don’t deserve to be with you all anymore, I don’t want you to have to know how I am like that, a-and besides, I can’t just—I can’t just leave Chara here all alone—”

“You will not turn into a flower again,” you say, as firmly as you can.

“M—Mom, you can’t…” He starts to laugh now. “You can’t know that. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry you have to have a son like me, I—”

“You have remained yourself for this long,” you interrupt. “You will not be turning back into a flower. We will enlist the help of everyone we can to make sure that that will never happen to you. Asriel, you have suffered enough. Come home with us. Let us be a family again.”

“Listen to your mother,” Asgore says, and when you turn your head to observe him, he smiles tiredly. “You know that she is right most of the time. This is no place for a child to grow up. Please, join us on the surface.”

Asriel looks down at his feet, and the misery in his eyes hurts you.

Frisk reaches out and pokes him in the chest. Asriel’s head snaps up, his eyes wide.

When Frisk breathes in, it is shaky. You turn to them in dull surprise: Their face is covered in tear tracks, their shoulders are shaking, and they are biting their lip. They have lowered their chin so that their hair falls into their face, obscuring their expression, but what you can see of it is contorted with some powerful emotion.

 _Chara wouldn’t want you to stay here alone and miserable,_ they sign.

Asriel laughs a little, sad. “Frisk, you can’t know that.”

_I do know that. Please, believe me. I do._

Asriel sniffles. “I appreciate that you’re trying to cheer me up,” he says, and when you look at him he is smiling, and you do not know what to do. “You really are a good friend. I wish we’d been able to spend more time together, as—as friends. It would’ve been fun.”

Frisk shakes their head violently. They do not seem to know what to do with their hands anymore; they touch at their own chest, then reach out to lay their hands on Asriel’s, spreading their fingers over the front of his worn and faded shirt. They lean in and press their forehead against his, shuddering.

Your son pats Frisk’s shoulder.

“Please come home with us,” you say, stroking one hand down Asriel’s back. “I promise that we will find a way to make this work. We cannot possibly leave you here now, after all this.”

“You have been unhappy for long enough,” Asgore says. “We have all made mistakes, but they do not define us. You have always done the best you could. You deserve so much more than this.”

“I—I want to go with you,” Asriel tells you. “I’m just—I’m scared. There’s still no guarantee that I won’t turn back into Flowey, and if I do, I’ll…”

“If you are comfortable with it,” you offer, “we can have the former doctor Alphys have a look at you and see if we can understand how you have been able to maintain your form. It may be that you do have your own soul again. There may be some other reason. If there is another reason, then we can think of a method that will help. You have made it this far. It is too late, I think, for this sort of fatalistic talk.”

Over the children’s heads, Asgore is raising his eyebrows at you. You want to sigh and roll your eyes at him, because no, you are not happy with the thought of having to let Asriel near Alphys even though she did not intend for this to happen to him, but you will do whatever you need to in order to keep your precious son safe and whole. But Asriel is gaping up at you, so you have no real leeway to make a face at him.

“You—you really think so?” Asriel whispers.

“Of course,” you tell him, and smile. “I have missed you so much. I do not intend to let you go now that we have finally found each other again.”

“We will do everything in our power,” Asgore says, “to give you the same chance of a happy life as everyone else. You deserve that as much as anyone, my son.”

“Haha,” Asriel says, “wow,” and he releases his locket to scrub at his face with both hands. Frisk eases back to let him. “To tell the truth, I have been… a little lonely. I guess I could… I could try. But if it looks like I’m going to turn back into a flower after all… please let me come back here. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again.”

You frown at him. “I do not want to promise you that. It remains one option of many, no more and no less.”

He breathes in, long and shuddery, and then out again. “Okay,” he says weakly. “Okay. I guess… I guess I’ll try it.”

Frisk sniffles very loudly, which provokes a wet laugh from Asriel.

“I just don’t get you, Frisk,” he says, tender, fond. “Mom and Dad, okay, but you didn’t have to come all this way just for me. We barely know each other. But you’ve never treated me like a stranger at all. How come?”

Frisk raises their head to stare at him, red-faced, their wide eyes glimmering with tears.

“Who cares about that now,” they say aloud, in a cadence you recognize.

You stare at them, speechless.

Frisk lifts a shaking hand to their mouth, face lit from within by wonder. Then they smile their usual warm smile, and laugh their usual quiet laugh, tender and proud. They cup both hands over their heart, gentle, as if cradling something precious.

Light filters through the cracks in the ceiling, haloing _the five of you_ in a golden color. The whole world is soft, here, and in the circle of your linked embrace, everything that matters is finally made right again.

**Author's Note:**

> _It’s a place  
>  for those who own no place  
> to correspond to ruins in the soul.  
> It’s mine.  
> It’s all yours._  
>       - Li-Young Lee, "[With Ruins](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/126978908729/hiddenshores-choose-a-quiet-place-a-ruins-a)"
> 
> This story was inspired by [a very good post my friend made](http://drifters-wings.tumblr.com/post/131571442066/undertale-post-true-pacifist-end-spoilers).


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